Beneath Trees of Gold
by Certh
Summary: Part II of the Colours of Dawn series. And so they meet again.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

She could not recall ever having enjoyed nature so. The sky was a clear blue with only a handful of white cloud-wisps sailing lazily across it; the fiery orb of the sun was shining brightly; and the trees along their path stood green and proud. The short route from Cair Andros to the field of Cormallen was strangely scenic, not reminiscent of the plundered land they had ridden through from Minas Tirith to Osgiliath. Here there was no scorched earth or felled trees or indeed any evidence to indicate the passing of the enemy: the Orcs had most likely forded the River at a more northward point. That alone would account for the almost dreamlike serenity of their surroundings. This location came into stark contrast with the signs of destruction that in other places served as reminder of the War's cruelty. The contradiction was eerie.

Idrin remembered well the moment the great Eagle had flown over the White City, singing of the Dark Lord's downfall and the crumbling of his Tower. It had been after noon, nearly two weeks previously; she was sitting in the Halfling Meriadoc's chamber in the Houses of Healing, keeping him company. The two of them had grown fond of each other in those days after the army's departure and began seeking one another's fellowship, talking as friends might. The long hours of waiting for tidings were oppressive but passed more quickly and pleasantly when conversing with another. Merry told her of the Shire and his life there and of the adventures he had before the battle of the Pelennor Fields, and Idrin told him of her family and shared tales of Gondor.

So it was that healer and Hobbit – as Idrin now knew one belonging to that charming race was called by their own folk – were sat by the open window, Merry recounting an incident from his childhood in Buckland, when the song of the Eagle reached their ears. They stood and looked outside, and their hearts were lifted at the sight of the blazing Sun and cloudless sky.

"The Shadow has passed," said Merry and his face glowed. He began humming aloud a lively tune of the Shire, occasionally breaking into song:

_Hark all, winter is gone;  
now spring-birds come  
to nest in trees  
and bring the sun.  
Let us all be glad  
for the days are bright  
with light and cheer,  
music and dance._

_The white frost has thawed;_  
_the earth's astir_  
_and colourful turf  
covers every field.  
Wreaths and ribbons adorn  
each smial's door  
for the season of joy  
is here once more._

Idrin looked at him and smiled, feeling her heart flutter in her chest.

It was four days later that messengers came, bearing tidings and word from the King. Her brothers had also sent word, bidding her join them at the field of Cormallen. She had been hesitant at first, thinking of the work at the Houses of Healing she would leave behind for selfish reasons: there were still men who needed tending, and the number of healers had dwindled since nearly every single one of the male healers, along with some of the younger women, had gone with the army to offer their skill. Ioreth and many of those serving in the Houses advised her to allow herself a brief respite and go: since the fatally wounded from the Pelennor had been seen to, daily assignments had become much easier, and tasks had been mainly toned down to monitoring the condition of the recuperating.  
Seeking to talk with the Warden, he told her that her absence for a few says would not be crucial: work in the Houses had indeed lessened as of late and the leave-taking of one person would not be felt. His words had succeeded in partially dispersing her feelings of disquiet.

So, she was now riding to the field of Cormallen in relative ease of thought.

"Oh, those trees are beautiful. There's something almost Elvish about them." Merry's voice made Idrin focus on their surroundings. A line of tall trees had appeared before them, with dark barks and leaves of deepest green; but it was the flowers hanging like a multitude of delicate chains from the boughs that arrested the eye, coloured in sheer gold and tinted with red.

The healer turned to the Hobbit who rode on a grey pony beside her. "They are called _culumalda_, because of the colour of their flowers," she said. "It is from them that Cormallen took its name."

Merry glanced at the graceful trees that loomed closer, mentally comparing them to the stately mallorn-trees of Lothlórien: so different they looked and yet somehow strangely akin.

A man – one of the Gondorian soldiers who had accompanied the small party of twenty from Minas Tirith – steered his horse close to Idrin as they came near the golden branches. "We shall be arriving soon, lady," he informed her and then took his place by the one wagon that carried an assortment of provisions.

Idrin shifted in the saddle, only to wince at the discomfort brought by the movement. Her thighs were sore. This was the third day of their journey and although they had travelled by river from Osgiliath to Cair Andros, the hours spent aboard ship – and the ointment applied to her aching legs - were not enough to ease the tenderness caused by two days of riding. Admittedly, it had been a long time since she had ridden a horse for such a long period of time: even though she loved those large animals and was quite comfortable being on the back of one, the previous year with its hectic paces had not provided with the opportunity to do more than gaze at them from a distance.

She adjusted her grip on the reins as the company passed through the golden-red trees, absently revelling in how smoothly the tan palfrey beneath her responded to her signals. For a moment her memory went back to her early adolescence and an experience she now thought amusing: her first attempt at riding side-saddle. It was not uncommon for women to ride in such fashion; many Gondorian ladies preferred it, claiming it was a more dignified manner of riding for a female than sitting astride a horse. Idrin had attempted it but soon discovered it was not to her liking. She disfavoured the fact that she would always need aid to get into the saddle; the posture she had to keep was uncomfortable and her body felt unnaturally locked into place; she could not use the pressure of her legs to steer her mount and with that came a feeling of helplessness. Riding astride was much easier for her, giving more freedom of movement.

A chorus of voices dispersed her musings, promptly claiming her attention. They had arrived at the encampment: the wide green lawn was dotted with tents and pavilions, and a swarm of people went to and fro.

"My lady, welcome to North Ithilien," a familiar voice came from her left as she drew her horse to a halt, and she looked down to see Arvinion beaming at her. A wide smile lit her face at seeing her brother well and unharmed. She dismounted eagerly, miraculously not getting tangled in the skirts of her dress, but her balance was lost the moment her feet touched the ground and she swayed dangerously. Her brother's hands were about her waist immediately. Steadying herself and still smiling, she threw her arms about his neck. Arvinion returned the embrace and then held her at arm's length, looking at her appraisingly. She was startled by another figure coming in close proximity.

"Lady," the man sounded apologetic for interrupting their reunion. "I shall see that your horse is tended to." He had already taken hold of the gelding's reins and waited for her consent.

"Thank you," Idrin said appreciatively; the soldier led the horse away. Behind him, Idrin caught sight of Merry, standing alone and surveying the camp. She beckoned to him and turned to her brother when the hobbit came to stand by her.  
"Arvinion, I would like you to meet Meriadoc Brandybuck." The esquire of Rohan gave a polite bow.

"We meet at last, Master Meriadoc," said Arvinion cordially. "My sister speaks fondly of you and your kinsman Peregrin," he went on, recalling a long letter that he and Damhir had received some days past.

"She has kept me very good company while I was recovering in the Houses of Healing," said Merry.

"And has no doubt learnt all there is to know about Hobbits." The laughing voice belonged to Gandalf: the white-robed old wizard had approached them on silent feet.

Merry grinned. "Hullo, Gandalf," he greeted him, and went on to add: "But if you mean to accuse me of having talked the lady's ears off, I ought to say that she _was_ genuinely interested in Hobbit-lore." Laughter followed his words.

"That I was, Mithrandir," Idrin was quick to defend Merry's claim, her eyes sparkling with good humour.

"I am quite sure of it, lady," acceded the wizard. "Hobbits are remarkable creatures in their own way." He paused and turned to Merry again. "There is a friend who dearly wishes to see you, my lad."

The hobbit's face lit up. "Pippin," he murmured; then he looked at Idrin and Arvinion. "I shall seek you out later," he took his leave and went with Gandalf eagerly, the weariness of the journey seemingly having fallen off him.

Arvinion turned to his sister, "Halflings truly are a delightful people." At his sibling's languid gesture of agreement, he took note of the subtle traces of fatigue on her face and shook his head. "You must want to clean up and rest, and here I detain you from it." Despite the self-reproof, a hint of merriment touched his features as he proffered his left arm to his sister, "Shall we?"

Idrin threaded her arm lightly through his and they made their leisurely way further into the camp.

"I will see that your luggage is brought here," said Arvinion as they stopped in front of the large tent the siblings would now share.

"That has already been done." Damhir had emerged from within; he beamed at his sister and in one swift movement caught her by the waist and twirled her round. Idrin embraced him as he set her on her feet, too joyful for words.

They ushered her into the tent and she saw that the small chest she had brought with her was indeed there, placed at the foot of an improvised bed in a curtained area evidently set apart for her use. They went outside then, leaving her to her privacy. Idrin eyed the mattress critically: a sturdy sack woven of hemp and filled with fresh bracken was beneath the bedroll, effectively raising it a few inches off the hard ground. It did not seem unlike the sleeping pad she had used during the ride from Minas Tirith, although it did look more yielding - a fact that pleased her immensely. Having camped with her father and brothers in her early childhood, she had known there would be no soft mattresses over the course of the journey to Ithilien, but her unaccustomed body had nonetheless protested at the feel of stony ground when she lay to sleep.

Now, a corner of her mouth curved upward at the thought that her brothers had gone to such lengths to make her bedding so comfortable. Pressing down on it experimentally revealed that it was almost springy and that added to her delight. She glanced down at her riding habit: the moss-coloured dress was dusty and the black under-dress showing from underneath the ankle-length split skirt clung to her legs. Idrin suddenly felt the linen fabrics weigh down on her shoulders. She unclasped the belt and, gathering fresh clothes, made for the screened corner that played the part of a makeshift bathroom.

The luxury of heated water and soap served as a reminder of all those things she had valued too lightly for so many years. _It was childish behaviour in a way,_ she reflected as she scrubbed vigorously at her skin with the rough towel and washed the dirt from her hair. But if the short journey had done one thing, it was to make her less liable to take anything for granted again.

When she exited the tent a while later, twilight had fallen and the camp-fires were lit.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Arvinion was sitting alone by the blazing logs nearby, cutting a rabbit to pieces. A second coney was on a wooden board beside him, already skinned. He glanced up at his sister as she approached.

"Would you like some help?" Idrin motioned to the board.

Arvinion stilled his hands and regarded her. After such a journey, he had expected her to take advantage of her leisure and unwind instead of seeking something to do. "You should be resting," he stated firmly, pointing the knife he held at her.

Idrin waved him off. "A bit of warm water on the skin and some peppermint ointment for the muscles can work wonders." It was true. Her brother didn't argue. "I am not that tired," she added earnestly in softer tones. Sweeping her immediate surroundings with a quick look, she retreated back into the tent, emerging a few minutes afterwards with a slender knife in hand. Arvinion did not need to ask how she had acquired the double-edged blade: even with Sauron defeated, the travelling roads were not yet wholly safe, and it was not unheard of for women to know how to protect themselves when need arose. She sat beside him, drew up the sleeves of her dress and reached for the skinned rabbit.

Only the sounds of the crackling fire and the crunching of knife on bone engulfed them as they worked; but they were soon joined by the sound of footfalls.

"Should you not be resting, dear sister?"

Idrin turned to look behind her, an indulgent grin playing at her lips. "I am fine, Damhir." Her eyes moved to the man accompanying her brother and something inside her gave a tiny jolt. The flaxen-haired knight stared at her, transfixed. Damhir began introducing the man to his sister, but a slow smile had already started to form on Idrin's lips before he had finished.  
"We have already met," her voice mingled with Damhir's last words. The younger of her brothers gazed at her with interest; Arvinion raised an enquiring eyebrow. "At the Houses of Healing," Idrin went on to elaborate, casting a quick glance at her siblings.  
Then she shifted her attention to the Rohir, what remained of the rabbit in her hands forgotten. "I trust your leg is healing well?"

Éothain had been watching her, a light in his eyes. He recalled the wish he had expressed so many days past, when the healer had bid him farewell on the eve of the army's departure. It had been sincere, that want of his, but the harsh reality of battle had driven him to accept that such a want was likely to remain unrealised. And yet they had now met again, in the most improbable of places. What was more, she was the sister of two men with whom he had fought side by side on the battlefield and whom he had grown to call friends.

The keen look the healer presently fixed him with and the question asked brought to the forefront of his mind an incident in the aftermath of the Battle of the Black Gate.

It had been near sundown on the day of their great victory, and the host had moved back to their camp for the night, set up in the most unaffected part of the Battle Plain. Unwelcoming and barren though that land was, they would linger there for a few days still, to allow the regaining of strength. Healers and those with some knowledge of the healing arts went ceaselessly about, tending to the wounded, while others undertook the task of preparing food.  
Éothain was sitting by a small fire, a look of concentration on his face as his fingertips probed carefully at his lower back. Even though he could not see it, he could feel that the sword-cut was shallow, but a bruise had formed nearly a hand's width above it where a heavy blow had forced his mail-shirt into his right side. He gritted his teeth against a wince and reached for a clean cloth to dunk in heated water and wash the wound.

"'Tis more prudent to let another treat a wound you cannot see," a voice came suddenly from beside him, making him turn sharply. The soon-to-be-crowned King of Gondor stepped round the fire-pit and squatted next to him. "Let me."

Stunned, the Rider made no reply as the man took the cloth from his hands. Éothain had seen him earlier with the healers, going from one wounded soldier to the other to offer his skill, barely allowing himself any substantial time for rest after the big battle. "Thank you," the Rohir said belatedly and was answered with an amiable curl of lips. Silence fell as Aragorn cleaned the wound gently and searched inside the small bag he carried. An uncomfortable feeling began to plague Éothain: the presence of the king had caused old memories to surface, none of which he was overly fond of. There had been ill-mannered words on his part that he wished to apologise for, even if the man he had indirectly offended seemed to have dismissed them from his thoughts.

"My lord Aragorn," he began, "when first we crossed paths on the plains of Rohan, I was impetuous and ungracious." He paused a second to draw breath and ploughed on: "I spoke words birthed by ignorance and a troubled mind. Our days prior to that one had been difficult; I was angered by the treachery of Saruman whom we had thought our friend and ally and, as my companions, I chafed to be away to Edoras. I had but little patience to deal with strangers travelling through our lands. I recognise now that I should have checked my tongue."

Aragorn let him finish without interrupting, watching the young man's face as he spoke. In truth, he had not taken to heart the words he had uttered that day, attributing them to some ill fate and not paying much heed to them. He was, after all, no stranger to the straightforwardness of the Men of the Mark and the way they spoke their minds.  
"There is no need to apologise, Éothain," he said kindly. "A troubled mind may lead a man to say things he does not mean." As the Rider bowed his head in relief, the King resumed dressing his wound, applying salve and binding soft pads of linen to his side.

Almost unconsciously, Éothain began rubbing his left calf; the former Ranger noticed. "Does your leg hurt?"

The Rohir looked up at him while readjusting his tunic. "Stitches that merely itch," he replied. At Aragorn's request he took off his boot and revealed the sutured skin. "A healer at the Houses of Healing tended the wound after the battle of the Pelennor," he explained. "She was quite insistent that I not strain it overmuch and gave me salve to treat it." And he had indeed been true to his word, applying salve and clean bandages as she had instructed.

"She was quite right," said Aragorn as he examined the area. "It has healed nicely; the stitches only need to be removed." He retrieved a small knife with a very fine blade from his bag and set to work.

Now Éothain felt a grin nearly lift the corners of his lips as he looked at the healer in question. "Yes, lady, it has fully healed," he answered her enquiry, addressing her by the title befitting one of her lineage: he had only recently, while conversing with her brothers, learnt that the siblings were sister-children to the late Steward Denethor, and the knowledge now verified his previous vague assumptions concerning the healer's standing.

Idrin seemed pleased to hear his leg had mended, but it was plain by the small frown momentarily creasing her brow that she had not expected the use of any title. "No formality is necessary, Éothain," she assured him quietly when she understood the reason behind it, following his movements absently with her eyes as he placed the basket he carried on a flat stone nearby. Suddenly she was made conscious of the half coney and knife she still held.

"Your dagger will be better suited for what we have procured from the mess tent." Relieved of his own load, Damhir settled beside her and nodded to his right. Idrin thought for a moment and then passed the rabbit to him, getting to her feet: her slender blade was indeed not very suitable for cutting meat and joint. She washed her sticky hands and dagger and moved to the other side of the fire, noting that a pot was already heating over it. She studied the contents of one basket appraisingly, thankful for the abundance of ingredients, and set to chopping.

"Any news from home?" asked Arvinion from where he had been sitting with Éothain, the basket of potatoes in front of them. The avidity in his tone was hard to miss.

"What news there have been I have already written in my letter," said Idrin, stirring onions and garlic into the heated oil in the pot, the hint of a smile in her voice. "Faramir is healed, and the lady Éowyn also, and the City is being set to order." She did not wonder at her brother's eagerness for tidings, for she knew he was merely impatient to go back to his home: both he and Damhir had family waiting for them. "Your wife and daughter await your return, and" - she turned to her second brother who had now joined her to add the rabbit pieces into the pot - "your son is already making his presence known."

Damhir stood gazing at her with a lopsided grin spreading wide on his face. Even though he already knew his wife believed their unborn child to be a boy, he never tired of hearing it. He was smitten with his becoming a father; and Idrin had never seen such a look of tenderness and pure rapture before. After a moment her brother blinked and regained his focus.

Idrin gave the stew a stir and turned to him: "I do not suppose you have brought wine with you?"

xxxx

The fire was still crackling merrily when they finished their dinner, the faint scent of thyme and rosemary still wafting over the pot.

Éothain put his bowl down, his attention drawn to Idrin as she laughed at something Damhir had said. For some strange reason, words had failed the Rohir while they ate, and he had kept mostly to himself, content with simply watching the siblings interact. Their good humour and easy bantering as they spoke together stirred warmth inside him but also a sudden, deep longing for his family. He gazed at the last drops of liquid in his cup pensively.

"Are you well?" The gentle voice brought him back to the present; he saw that Idrin had moved closer to him.

He tried to dispel his melancholy, managing a grin. "Yes; I was simply pulled into my own thoughts for a moment," he assured her.

"You miss your home." It was more of an observation than a question. Then again, with the three of them speaking of things familiar and loved ones, it was no feat to understand what had affected his mood.

"I do," the Rider replied. "Both the place and the people there."

"Do you have siblings?"

"A sister," answered Éothain, "five years younger than me." He gazed at Idrin in sudden contemplation; the intensity of the look caught the young woman off guard. "Your decision to become a healer... did your parents not object to it?" he asked. "It is not something as ingenuous as merely being a herb-master or brewing draughts for the sick," he hurried on to explain. "It can be strenuous and bloody work, and those of high birth would be likely to label it an inappropriate and unrefined pastime for their daughter." Even though Idrin had told him why she had chosen to become a healer, his recently gained knowledge of her descent made him wonder what the initial reaction of her parents had been.

"Both Father and Mother were people who did not contemn work." It was Arvinion who replied. He and Damhir had joined them after having pulled the cooking pot from the embers, now empty save for the dregs of wine at the bottom. "Father believed that if one finds fulfillment in an occupation, then they should pursue it, so long as it's not exorbitant or causes offence. And even though enjoying the privileges of being a Steward's daughter, Mother entertained similar beliefs." He fell quiet and looked at his sister.

Something akin to a smile brushed Idrin's lips as she recalled an old memory. "When I was young, I asked her once why she insisted to tend our garden by herself instead of having a gardener do it for her. She told me it gave her joy, made her feel useful; told me there was more to life than having people wait on you while you did nothing to fill the emptiness. It was years later that I understood what she meant." There was a long pause as her words faded into silence; then she spoke again: "Just as Father approved of my choosing to become a healer, so I like to believe would she."

Éothain simply nodded but his gaze lingered on the young woman a second more. Her words stirred him, acutely honest and simmering with quiet emotion as they were. There was nothing frivolous or impetuous about them, and he realised he appreciated the plain sincerity of her manner.

The conversation then moved to other topics, and it was nearly two hours before they decided it was time to retire. They made quick work of clearing away empty bowls and utensils, and then the Rohir was standing before the healer.

"Thank you for a fine meal and good company, my lady." He bowed his head in farewell.

"Good-night, Éothain." She did not correct the manner of his addressing her, knowing it was no longer meant to bear the gravity of a formal title. The Rider nodded his good-bye to her brothers and went his way.

* * *

Author's Note: Illustrations of my original characters can now be found on my fanfic website, under the heading _Portraits_; the link is on my profile. More drawings are to come.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

The following morning Idrin awoke later than was her wont. _I was more tired than I had thought, _she reflected as she parted the tent flap to step out into the golden sunlight, washed and dressed.

"Good morning, sister." Damhir sounded cheerful. "Breakfast?"

She was both surprised and pleased to see that the makeshift table – wooden boards atop a flat stone – had not yet been cleared: dried fruits and cheese and crisp-bread were still on it. Her brother looked comfortable, savouring the moments of morning peace: his face was turned towards the warmth of the sun, his long legs stretched out before him. She took a seat by his side and her gaze wandered to the midst of the green field of Cormallen. Grand pavilions had been erected there, and a large throng of people – soldiers and civilians alike – milled about, coming and going without pause.

"It seems the feast will not be lacking," Idrin commented as she watched the final carts being unloaded.

"Indeed, it will not," replied Damhir. "The preparations have been going on since dawn. It will be as proper a banquet as can be."

They talked of the coming celebration as she broke her fast, and of those who had come to attend, and then Idrin took her leave, wishing to see more of the camp. Her brother chose to stay and finish whittling a thick branch of holly oak he had found earlier.

She kept near the stream that flowed past their tent as she walked and did not stray far amid the multitude of similar-looking pavilions for worry of losing her way in that vast encampment. Yellow celandines and anemones and irises in many colours grew by the water, creating a vibrant living carpet, and among them Idrin could pick out the unassuming forms of coltsfoot and ribwort, plain and yet so cherished by healers.  
The young woman attempted to commit her surroundings to memory – she had come to North Ithilien only once before, years past as a young girl, and thus every sight was new to her now.

A voice called out to her by name, and she turned to see a young man clad in deep blue robes sitting before a large tent. Recognising her fellow healer, she went from the stream-bank to join him and his companions. "Camaen," she greeted him, "I am glad to see all of you are well." There was true relief in her voice as she regarded the six robe-clad men looking up at her. "I trust the others remain unharmed, too?"

"Aye," Athenir, the healer beside Camaen, answered; "the worst injury received was an arrow graze." The older man studied her then as if assessing her appearance, and a gleam shone in his eyes. "What of you, Lady Idrin? I believe this is the first time we see you in aught but healer's garb, and it truly does become you." The others laughed quietly at his teasing, and Idrin found herself grinning readily with them. It was true that in all their years of knowing her, they had never chanced to see her in everyday dress, and the occasion decidedly merited the remark. She appreciated the good nature and friendly ease behind it, valuing the fact that her lineage was of no consequence with those serving in the Houses.

"My brothers called for me," she replied, seating herself next to the black-haired healer named Tirhael, "and, being assured that my presence in the Houses shall not be missed, I am come." It struck her at that very moment what strange a sight their assemblage must currently present: a young woman flanked by a company of men, engaged in such easy conversation. To those not aware of the ties of profession and friendship binding them, they would be a most queer spectacle indeed. "And what of you here?" Idrin proceeded to enquire. "How went the battle?"

There was a heartbeat of silence before Camaen took up the tale. They had worked ceaselessly after the battle of the Black Gate had begun. Stationing themselves on the outskirts of the fray and erecting tents to serve as screened treatment areas, they had made themselves ready and waited. It was not long after the din of bloodshed had filled the air that the wounded began flooding in. Few as they were, the healers were soon in a frenzy of activity, working quickly and deftly as the number of the injured increased while dressing materials and necessary supplies diminished.

Following the grim account without speaking, Idrin could not help but mentally compare the described events to the direct aftermath of the battle of the Pelennor. The Houses of Healing had been filled with wounded men then, but this last battle against Sauron seemed more brutal and much more costly. Perhaps it was the fact that the healers in Minas Tirith had had the luxury of working indoors, protected from the battle raging six hundred feet below them, or the fact that there had been more helping hands: many of the minimally wounded and able-bodied soldiers had been recruited to help carry litters and aid the healers in whatever way they could.  
Idrin herself had been charged with tending the less-grievously injured and recuperating, and that duty was much lighter than others. As such, it had kept her at a distance from the rooms where those with life-threatening wounds were ushered into, but she had heard the cries of agony and the calls for hot water and bandages, had seen the broken bodies and other healers stained with blood.

"The Halfling Peregrin was found under the body of a Troll," Camaen finished. "We had thought him dead, but there was life in him still and he has recovered well enough." The ghost of a smile flitted across the healer's angular features. "They can be brave and resilient, these Halflings, though they do not seem it."

"The one called Sam has not yet woken," Tirhael put in, "although Frodo has earlier today." He lapsed into silence and then a snort of brief laughter escaped his lips. "Who would have believed that for nigh a year the fate of us all was in the hands of such unlikely a creature." He shook his head to himself, a look of wonder on his face.

The comment caused Idrin's thoughts to shift from Pippin to the Hobbits mentioned. It was only a week previously that she had learnt of their pivotal role in the War. It was Faramir who had told her, one morning shortly after the Captains of the West had began their march to the Black Land, in reluctant reply to her musings concerning the foolhardiness of that decision. He had remained silent for a long while, listening to her talk of the foolishness of setting seven thousands against the vast armies of Mordor.¹ Then he had drawn a long breath and looked at her with a searching gaze.  
'It is not victory by arms the Captains hope to achieve,' he had finally said. 'Such hope would be futile indeed. Nay, they only wish to draw the Dark Lord's attention and thus give Frodo chance to accomplish the task appointed to him.' As Idrin looked at him in incomprehension, he went on: 'Remember you the dream that led Boromir to Imladris and what it spoke of? Isildur's Bane has indeed wakened, the one thing the Dark Lord desires above all, and it was for its unmaking that the Fellowship of Nine set out in secret.'

Idrin remembered the fear coursing through her when she had at long last grasped the full meaning of her cousin's words, the endless questions she had wanted to ask, the sorrow for the priceless sacrifice that was to be made in the name of a faint hope. And yet, against so many odds, victory had been theirs. She had often wondered, before news of Sauron's defeat had reached them, if her mind would be less troubled had she not known the truth about Isildur's Bane and the Halfling's Quest. Peaceful is the thought of the ignorant, an old saying claimed, and she had understood why.

But all that was past now, and Idrin was glad for all the familiar encounters here in Ithilien. She stayed with her fellows a while longer, chatting about pleasant and trivial things. When she left them to their own endeavours, her feet carried her towards the Great River, the stream always at her left side.

A tent to her right caught her attention: it was larger and less plain than the rest, its ivory-coloured cloth almost vibrant and not faded by frequent use. It stood some ways apart from the other pavilions nearby, a bit closer to the stream. It was the woman who sat in the sun near a slender golden-red tree that made Idrin pause, however. As she approached, the older female glanced up from her needlework and smiled lightly.  
She was a tall woman, nearing her sixtieth year, with keen eyes and somewhat aquiline features that gave her an austere appearance. Her dark hair was flecked with grey, drawn away from her face in a knot at the back of her head. The simple-cut, subtly embellished gown she wore only added to her grave demeanour, and as she rose, it became evident that this was a woman of dignified bearing.

"Lady Berenil," said Idrin amiably, "it is good to see you here."

The other met her gaze steadily. "Old habits are difficult to cast aside, even in times of grief," she replied. "My son has fought in this battle and survived it. I owe it to him to be here on this day."

The young woman was struck into silence, not quite knowing how to respond. The Lady Berenil was wife to Angbor, Lord of Lamedon, who had joined the march to Mordor with his son after leaving a large portion of his men in defence of Minas Tirith. Both had fought valiantly, but the Lord had perished before the Black Gate while his heir was spared. Idrin could not pretend to fathom lady Berenil's pain at losing her husband so violently and suddenly, but she would have thought her sorrowing still and in no humour to entertain others at present. And yet, here she was, keeping to the long-established practice of riding out to meet the men of her family after battle for which she was known, even though her spouse was among the living no longer.²

"A new dawn is breaking over the horizon," Berenil continued more softly, perceiving perhaps that her stern words had startled the younger female, "and better days are to come. It does not do to mourn overmuch for those we have lost to battle, for they have willingly given their lives so that our future may be brighter." She smiled thinly.

Idrin looked at her. Never before had she realised how much strength the Lady Berenil possessed – not bodily strength, but one of another kind, quiet, unseen and far more potent. Her aunt Ivreth had possessed such strength. The healer simply bowed her head.

xxxx

The final preparations for the feast were well underway when she made her way back to the tent she shared with her brothers. Arvinion had returned, too. He sat watching his younger brother turn the piece of wood in his hands, eyeing it critically and occasionally paring slivers of it. When he was satisfied with the result, Damhir blew the wood-dust away and held the carving up to them.  
It was shaped as a fox suspended in mid-step, its tail curling low near the hind legs and its head turned to the right to gaze at something beyond sight. It was well-proportioned and detailed as could be, and yet small enough to fit into one's palm.

"Why a fox?" asked Idrin as her brother placed the carved animal in her hand for inspection.

Damhir shrugged. "It seemed more fitting than anything else," he said. "Foxes are beautiful animals, clever and adaptable; my son will like it."

His sister smiled. "Yes," she agreed, giving the wooden toy to Arvinion; "it is quite elegant."

Idrin settled by her brothers, and once more their talk turned to family and matters near their heart. The sun climbed higher in the sky; it was noon when a lone trumpet marked the hour and summoned all.

* * *

¹ '. . . [the number of soldiers setting out for Mordor] told six thousand foot and a thousand horse.' (_The Return of the King_, Book 5, Chapter IX: The Last Debate)

² It is never stated whether the Lord of Lamedon accompanied the Host of the West to Mordor or whether he remained behind to help guard Minas Tirith. I think it's plausible that he would leave a part of his force to strengthen the City while he and the rest joined the march to the Black Gate.  
Lord Angbor's family background, as well as his fate, are of my own invention since we know nothing about them.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: I apologise for the overly long delay between updates, but real life has been exceptionally demanding these past months. This is the last chapter of Part II, though not of the series. Thank you for your patience, for reading and reviewing!

(One thing I forgot to mention in my last author's note is that touch-ups have been done to Chapters 2-5 and 7-9 of _Alfirin_, as well as to Chapters 1 and 2 of this fic, in order to better clarify the work regime in the Houses of Healing during/after the siege of Minas Tirith and the cleansing of the Pelennor after the battle, to address some issues/reactions that should have featured sooner, and to introduce other facets of characters' personalities.)

* * *

**Chapter 4**

Midday sun glinted off burnished mail and naked spearheads. The cleared space in the field of Cormallen teemed with soldiers, both of Gondor and Rohan, some unscathed by battle and others bearing signs of mending injuries. The number of civilians present was small, mostly made up of cooks and domestics come to help with the preparations for the banquet, minstrels arrived to grace willing ears with sweet music, and a couple of travelling merchants deeming the occasion a good opportunity to sell their wares.

A low murmur of voices rippled through the assembled crowd while they waited. Then, as the white-robed wizard stepped into the clearing, the droning hum died away and the attention of all was turned to him and the two smaller figures trailing behind him. Amidst the drawing of many swords and the shaking of spears, the sounding of trumpets and the cries of praise that went up at that moment, Idrin caught her first glimpse of the Ring-bearers.

They were less in height than Merry and Pippin, the top of their curly, dark heads reaching a little above Mithrandir's elbow. Contrasting their worn clothes, tattered from many hardships, their eyes were bright and wide as they gazed upon the gathered host, and their faces were flushed red. For a brief instant their feet faltered and their limbs stiffened: it was evident they had not expected so loud a cheer or so genuine a welcome. Yet they moved forward and the crowd parted for them and gradually fell silent as they neared the three high-seats standing prominent amid the sea of people.

When the new King rose to greet them, Idrin could not help but compare him to the man she had seen in Faramir's sick-room in the Houses of Healing nearly a month before. The fatigue and worry had fallen from him, and he looked taller, younger and more ready to laugh. There was an undeniable air of nobility and kindness about him that filled the healer with wonder.

"He truly does have something of the Númenórean kings of old," Damhir said in a hushed tone from his place beside her, voicing her thoughts. On her right, Arvinion murmured his agreement. Gondor's new sovereign resembled the proud figures gracing old tapestries, the stately lords in tales and histories of Ages past. Gleaming in their bright mail, the brothers looked on as the Halflings were set upon the throne and the King Elessar turned to the host. As cheers went up once more, their voices were joined to that of the others, clear and joyous.

The flowing sounds of a Gondorian minstrel's lute soon rose into song, and the crowd was hushed.

___Mi 'athrod vorn  
Dorthant ____în ernediaid,  
dolen o phain  
nu ered chithui ...__*_

Thus the bard began, casting in verse the awakening of Isildur's Bane and exalting the deeds of the courageous Hobbits, in Elvish speech and Common Tongue, and the hour passed swiftly.

The Sun was on her westward journey by the time the singer drew the last note from his lute. Applause followed the performance and then the host began dispersing, heading to the feast-tents in small groups of four or five. Idrin was thankful for the shade within the pavilions: even though the day promised not to be overly warm, the heat of noon beating down upon her had proven to be more discomforting than she had anticipated. Not so much as to make her seek what cover she could find beneath the trees on the edge of the field, but she was glad to be in a cooler place all the same.

She pulled the sleeves of her dress down, smoothed back a few strands of hair that had escaped the knot she had tied it into and looked about her.

The inside of the great pavilion resembled a fancy mess hall, with coloured eaves and long, polished trestle tables and benches and lanterns ready to be lit at evenfall. Fresh air and sunlight streamed in through the open flaps, and serving-women weaved their way to and fro, bearing trays of dishes and cups. As expected given the heavy blow the War had dealt on land and crops and livestock, the belated midday meal was simple and without unnecessary lavishness. The King Elessar himself had deemed it foolish to indulge in extravagant fares – there was, after all, the future to think of and provide for, and the coming winter would be a challenge. Nevertheless, the variety of offered food was flavoursome. There were meat pies with dates and raisins; eels from the Anduin fried in garlic and lemongrass; salads of rocket, endive and garden beaked-parsley, sprinkled with pine nuts in dressings of oil, vinegar and salt; fresh bread buns; spiced wine and ale.

Not recognising any familiar faces in the throng of people, Idrin stayed close to her brothers and was thus introduced to a number of their various comrades-in-arms. They were courteous, enquiring after her well-being and her work and the restoration of Minas Tirith; they spoke of their families and the homes they had left behind. Pleasant as their company was, the healer found her attention wavering when the men's conversation began delving in earnest into the differences between Gondorian and Rohirric military structure and the finer points of the commanding captains. A glimpse of pearl-white and steel-blue near one wall of the pavilion caught her eye, and she realised the people there were not strangers to her. She excused herself and made her way to that far end of the feast-tent, cup of spiced wine in hand.

"It is good to see you all unhurt."

The group of healers turned at the sound of her voice and her grin was met with many of their own. Tirhael made room at the table for her and she took a seat next to Narwë. The female healer, named so for the dark copper of her hair, looked at her with shining eyes.

"You look different," she said lightly. "The colour becomes you."

Idrin's gaze unconsciously sought the saffron-hued fabric of her dress, and she let out a short breath of laughter, recalling Athenir's words that morning. Suddenly, she felt blameful for not socialising more with her fellows outside the Houses of Healing. That was something she would like to remedy, she acknowledged. When she looked down the table, the emotion of guilt fled, replaced with delight. A couple of seats across from her sat Pippin and Merry, and she was glad to observe the younger Hobbit looked as bright as she remembered.

"You look well, Master Peregrin."

The Halfling beamed at her. "I do feel well. I thought that Troll had done away with me." The last sentence brought a hint of shadow to his jovial face and a chill that went to everyone's bones, but the gloom was instantly chased away by his next words: "Luckily, Mistress Narwë saved my hide. And she was kind enough to scrounge me up some mushrooms." He flashed the young woman in question a smile, which she returned generously.

"Have you met with your kinsmen yet? I expect they will be elated to see you here." Idrin took a sip of wine.

"No, not yet," answered Merry. "We shall surprise them at the feast tonight – we are to be cup-bearers to the Kings." A smug expression came over the hobbit's features as he imagined the look of astonishment on Frodo and Sam's faces when they saw them.

It was only then that Idrin took note of the attire of the two Halflings: they were garbed in the livery of Rohan and of Gondor, respectively in green and white, and black and silver. Esquires indeed, having witnessed terrible things.

Narwë's voice made her turn, "How is the restoration of the City progressing? Have people begun returning?"

"The first wagons arrived the day we set out," Idrin began.

xxxx

The evening feast was a grand affair, as befitted a celebration for the great victory over the Shadow: there was music and song; the tables appeared to never empty; drink seemed to be ever in supply; good cheer permeated the atmosphere. It had been a long while since anyone had enjoyed such a day, free of cares and the uncertainty of what the next morning would bring, Idrin thought as she stood outside the large banquet-tent, savouring the night breeze. And it had been longer still since she had allowed herself more than one cup of wine, she mused with an inward grin.

It was two hours before midnight, but there were few people about, the majority still feasting within the brightly lit pavilions. She had eaten and drunk and conversed with a great many people, but the long day had finally began taking its toll. Most likely the accumulated tiredness of the past weeks had yet to wear off sufficiently. Thus, she had taken her leave, purposing to return to the tent she shared with her brothers and rest. She hoped she could find her way in the black of night: from a distance, all pavilions looked the same in the absence of light, and she feared that might cause her sense of direction to waver.

"Tired of the babbling crowd?"

The deep voice beside her made the healer jump. A dark splotch soaked the ground where her feet had been as the wine in her half-full cup was disturbed, and a red trickle grazed her fingers. She shook the droplets from her hand and turned to face Éothain.  
"Yes," came the truthful answer. "That and a bit more wine," she confessed.

One corner of the Rider's mouth quirked upwards. "I do not think there is anyone who has not taken advantage of the abundance of drink tonight," he commented. "Except perhaps the Halflings. They retired about an hour ago, no doubt weary of the noise in the King's pavilion and wanting to spend some quiet time together."

"They did well. I was to retire myself," Idrin admitted, "but now I see that the night is too beautiful to be spent inside." She had stayed in the feast-tent since the banquet begun a short time before sunset; the coolness and the quiet and the subtle fragrance of the falling evening outside had been a delight after the rather close atmosphere within.

"That it is," Éothain agreed. "It was for fresh air that I came out myself. Would you walk with me? I am sure my drinking companions will not miss me." He cast a quick glance at the King's pavilion from where he had emerged.

Not expecting such straightforwardness, it took the healer a moment to find her voice. "I would like that," she replied. She retreated to the feast-tent behind her to set her cup in a serving-girl's tray and joined him again.

Those enjoying a more private banquet under the open sky did not pay heed to them as they walked past. They went in silence at first, taking in the darkened surroundings and the faint scent from the trees lining the field, the weak breeze cooling their faces, before the Rohir spoke: "Your brothers said the Pelennor has been cleansed."

"It has," replied Idrin. "After the armies marched East, Lord Elfhelm sent whomever he could spare to help with that task. The remains of the burnt farmsteads were cleared and anything that could be salvaged was retrieved. Nearly all the slain and those we lost in the Houses were named, so their families will not be left to wonder about their fates. They were buried near the roots of Mindolluin, by the southern wall of the City. Foreign soil for your kinsmen, but they will not be forgotten." She drew a deep breath and fell silent. As if by unspoken agreement, there had been no talk of the War or its aftermath the evening before, and speaking of it now brought all the unpleasant feelings back.

This past war had been the first she had ever witnessed; she hoped it would also be the last. The night after the Great Gate of Minas Tirith had been shut was the first time she had truly felt just how real a threat the Enemy posed. Before that moment, all battles and skirmishes with the servants of the Dark Lord had seemed remote: she had entertained the thought that as long as the White City remained untouched, there would be safety. She had until then clung to hope, but when the siege began and all remaining within the City walls were hemmed in a roofless cage, the genuine proximity of danger slowly sank in. Admittedly, her work had kept the feeling of cold dread at bay, at times making her forget as more immediate thoughts occupied her mind. Upon reflection she realised she had never before felt such blind fear, and she was not too keen on revisiting the emotion. And yet, she lived while so much had been destroyed and so many had lost their lives.

"So many..." she whispered to herself, her eyes gazing unseeingly over the stream their slow feet had led them to, her arms wrapping around herself as if to ward off a chill. The golden-red trees nearby whispered as a fresh breath of wind blew through their leaves.

Éothain turned to look at her now still figure, the hands that unconsciously tightened their grip as her mood darkened. The expression on her face was the gloominess preceding unshed tears; sudden realisation struck him. "You lost someone close to your heart in the Ring War."

She knew he did not mean her father: her brothers had told him of his fate. The healer nodded, confirming his guess. "The man I was betrothed to was killed not long before the attack on Osgiliath last summer."

Having expected to hear about the loss of a dear relation or friend, the Rider was startled by the revelation: the healer's open manner and easy speech had led him to think her unattached. The absence of a ring upon her finger had consolidated the notion, but now it made him wonder, for he knew women who had lost their intendeds or husbands clung to their rings in mourning. It was possible she was want to remove her betrothal ring when working at the Houses of Healing for fear of marring its beauty, he thought; mayhap she had misplaced it before the journey to Ithilien and had yet to find it.

Unaware of Éothain's gaze on her, Idrin shook her head and resumed walking, following the stream northwards.

"My sympathies," the Rohir offered belatedly.

The healer inclined her head. "Thaldor was my dearest friend. Those who were with him said the arrow found his heart; he did not suffer a slow death. There is a small measure of comfort in that at least, I suppose." The young woman proceeded to take a seat by the cold fire-pit outside her brothers' tent and looked up at the dark sky.

Éothain slanted her a glance, valuing the composed manner and calmness in her voice. He followed her gaze to the myriad of white pinpricks dotting the firmament. "In the Mark it is said that falling stars are the souls of those slain in battle, following the servants of Wælcyriga to his Halls of Waiting to find peace."¹ That was, perhaps, not the most consoling thing to say, but the talk of fallen warriors and sight of stars had brought that old story to mind.

Idrin smiled wanly. "Finding peace in death is a solacing thought. I admit I have never before read in lore of falling stars being the souls of the slain: in Gondor the tales speak rather of the creation of stars."

"Tell me."

The healer gazed at the heavens once more as the Rider came to sit by her, her eyes picking out constellations. She raised her hand and pointed at a bright, sprawling formation with a forefinger. "The Valacirca the Elves call it, the sickle of the Valar, but in Gondor we call it Grewil, the Female Bear. Once, when the ancient west of Middle-earth was still above the waters of the Sea, she was a woman, the daughter of a mighty lord of Men. She was named Silvain, because of her great beauty, and her loveliness grew even as she did. It was her want to walk in the green woods beside her father's house at dawn, and it was on one such day that she came upon one of the Firstborn. The man, Túron, became enchanted by her fairness and, in time, Silvain returned his love. They were happy together, but their bliss did not last long. The sorcerer Gorchir – the one named Sauron by the Elves – coveted Silvain's great loveliness, and it is said that it was the only time he ever had such emotions.

"One morning, when Túron was away, he approached the lady in secret as she sat beside the river and whispered an incantation to silence her voice and carried her off to his black fortress in the North. He crafted marvellous things of wondrous beauty to make her happy and made his yearning known, but Silvain remained cheerless and unresponsive to his words. She bided her time and then one night, when the guards in the sorcerer's fortress chanced to be less careful, she managed to flee. Túron, in the meanwhile, had never stopped looking for her once news of her disappearance reached him, and it was in the dead of night after Silvain's escape that the two lovers met again in the wild.

"They fled to the enchanted forest protected by the immortal Queen Melian, and there they were veiled from Gorchir's evil gaze. Months passed and a child was born to them, a boy they named Faradon, and thinking the sorcerer to have abandoned his search for them, they ventured outside the forest. But Gorchir hadn't forsaken his search, and in his anger borne from Silvain's rejection of him, he cast a spell on her, turning her into a bear. If he could not have her, then no-one would. Fearing for her safety, Túron led the bear to a cave, hidden from hunters or warriors. Then, he took their son and built them a house in the forest, raising the boy by himself. He returned to the cave every day, to spend time with his love and watch over her.

"Faradon grew to become a skilled hunter, and one day while he was out seeking game, he came upon a great female bear. It was Silvain who, having retained her human understanding and thought, recognised her son and moved to approach him. Not yet having knowledge of his mother's fate, Faradon drew his bow, thinking the bear was about to attack him. At that very moment, Túron appeared and, realising what was happening, rushed forward. A white light blinded him, and when his sight was restored, a smaller bear stood where his son had been. Aran Einior, the High King of Arda, having witnessed the lives and fates of the strange family through the eyes of his Eagles, had decided to intervene and prevent the killing of mother by son: he gave the boy the likeness of a bear, so he could recognise Silvain. Wishing to keep them from any more harm, Aran Einior raised all three to the heavens and placed them in the stars. Silvain became Grewil, the Female Bear; Faradon is the Bear Cub, Meglion, beside her; and Túron is the Bear Guardian, Brogdir, watching over them."²

Idrin had once again raised her hand to point out the star-formations as she spoke, her eyes filled with their light. Only when she lowered her gaze did she realise that she and Éothain were engulfed in darkness: her immersion in the recounting of the tale had led her to forget they had not built the fire.

The Rider's eyes were intense as he watched her, his whole body having turned to face her while listening. A few seconds passed in silence. "That was quite beautiful. Different from the stories told in the Mark."

"It is one of my favourites," said Idrin fondly. "My mother used to tell it as a bedtime story." She held his gaze for a moment and then, as movement caught her peripheral vision, turned to see. Her brothers were coming towards them. "It's growing late." A trace of gloominess brushed her tone as she got to her feet, hands moving to smooth her dress, her previous fatigue seemingly forgotten.

"There is always tomorrow night for more tales." Éothain picked up on the reason for the change in her voice easily. He rose, a faint grin on his lips as he went with her to the tent entrance.

"Yes, there is," replied the healer. "We do have a few more nights for the sharing of tales."

**End of Part II**

**To come: **_Colours of Dawn _Part III – **The First Dance**

* * *

* _In a dark cave  
It dwelt years unnumbered,  
hidden from all  
beneath misty mountains …  
_My first attempt at Sindarin poetry.  
-

¹ The Rohirric belief of falling stars being the souls of slain warriors is of my own invention, drawing from the Teutonic myth of central Europe, in which it is said that the fall of a star from the sky presages the death of the person it represents. ___Wælcyriga_ is an Old English word meaning _chooser of the slain_, used by Tolkien as a title for the Vala Mandos (_The History of Middle-earth: __The Shaping of Middle-earth_, Chapter III: The Quenta, _Appendix 1_). The servants of Mandos guiding the slain warriors to the Halls of Waiting is not canon, but rather my taking creative licence, drawing from the Norse myth of Valhalla.

² The tale of the constellation of Grewil is of my own invention, drawing from the Greek myth of Callisto. According to one version of it, Callisto was the daughter of Lycaon, King of Arcadia, and was one of the nymphs who accompanied the goddess Artemis after vowing to remain celibate. Zeus, who coveted Callisto, came to her in the guise of a bear and from their union was born Arcas. Artemis, enraged by Callisto's breaking her vow of celibacy, transformed her into a bear. Afraid that his wife Hera might also seek revenge for being cheated on, Zeus hid the bear Callisto in a cave and had the mother of the god Hermes raise Arcas. Later on, during a hunting expedition, Arcas came face to face with his bear mother who tried to approach him. Short of shooting her, he was himself transformed into a bear by Zeus, who did that so Arcas could recognise Callisto. Still wary of Hera's anger, Zeus turned them both into constellations.  
The Men of Beleriand calling Sauron _Gorchir_ is my taking creative licence with canon – it seemed fitting that Men should have a name for him in their culture that is different from the names the Elves gave him.  
_Aran Einior _is the Sindarin title for Manwë, meaning _Elder King _(_The History of Middle-earth: __The Peoples of Middle-earth_, Chapter XI: The Shibboleth of Fëanor).  
-

Naming the Original Characters: As in Part I, here follows a list with the names of the original characters that have made an appearance or were mentioned in this story, along with the name meanings. In the list are also featured non-canon Sindarin names for both people and constellations. Names marked with an asterisk are constructed by me.  
_  
Arvinion_* – older brother of Damhir and Idrin; nephew of Denethor II. His name means _noble first son_; from the Sindarin words _ar=noble_, min=_one_, and _iôn_=son.  
_Athenir –_ healer at the Houses of Healing. His name means _helpful man_; from the Sindarin words _athae_=helpful, and _dîr_=man._  
Berenil –_ wife of Angbor of Lamedon. Her name means _bold one_; from the Sindarin word _beren_=bold, and the feminine suffix _-il_.  
_Brogdir_* _–_ Gondorian name for the constellation corresponding to Boötes. The name means _bear watcher_; from the Sindarin words _br__ô__g_=bear, and _tirn_=watcher.  
_Camaen_ – healer at the Houses of Healing. His name means _skilled hand_; from the Sindarin words _cam_=hand, and _maen_=skilled._  
Damhir_* – brother of Arvinion and Idrin; nephew of Denethor II. His name means _hammer lord_; a simplified form of the name _Damhír_; from the Sindarin words _dam_=hammer, and _hîr_=lord.  
_Faradon_ – son of Silvain and Túron, later raised to the heavens as the constellation Meglion. His name means _hunter_; from the Sindarin word _farad_=hunting, and the masculine suffix _-on_.  
_Gorchir_*_ –_ name given to Sauron by Men during the First Age. The name means _werewolf lord_; from the Sindarin words _gaur_=werewolf, and _h__î__r=_lord.  
_Grewil_ – Gondorian name for the Valacirca; constellation corresponding to Ursa Major. The name means _female bear_; from the Sindarin word _graw_=bear, and the feminine suffix _-il_._  
Idrin_* – younger sister of Arvinion and Damhir; niece of Denethor II. Her name means _sparkling dew_; a Sindarin form of the Quenya name _Itarin_; from the Quenya words _ita_=sparkle, and _rin_=dew.  
_Meglion_* – Gondorian name for the constellation corresponding to Ursa Minor. The name means _bear son_; from the Sindarin words _megl__í_=bear, and _i__ô_n=son.  
_Narw__ë__ –_ healer at the Houses of Healing. Her name means _red-haired one_; from the Quenya word _narwa_=red-haired, and the feminine suffix _-__ë_.  
_Silvain_* – mortal woman who was cursed into a bear by Sauron during the First Age, later raised to the heavens as the constellation Grewil. Her name means _shining beauty_; from the Sindarin verb _síla-_=to shine white, and _bain_=beautiful.  
_Thaldor*_ – betrothed to Idrin; slain in battle before the Ring War. His name means _stalwart and noble_; from the Sindarin adjectives _thala_=stalwart, and _taur_=noble.  
_Tirhael_*_ –_ healer at the Houses of Healing. His name means _wise watcher_; from the Sindarin words _tirn_=watcher, and _sael_=wise.  
___Túron_ – Elf of Beleriand who fell in love with the mortal Silvain, later raised to the heavens as the constellation Brogdir. His name means ___strong one_; from the Sindarin word ___t__û_=strength, and the masculine suffix ___-ron_.


End file.
